


Velocity

by dragon_with_a_teacup



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Character Study, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Monologue, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24137173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_with_a_teacup/pseuds/dragon_with_a_teacup
Summary: Aziraphale can sense Affection whenever that emotion is near. Yet he has never looked for it within himself whenever Crowley is near. It should be impossible, an angel feeling such things for a demon; why, then, would it have occurred to him to look? Why would he have thought to analyze his bond with Crowley—a bond forged throughout the centuries through a convenient work arrangement—for anything beyond mere camaraderie?Yet now, his favorite angelic ability turns inward for the first time, and at last, he sees: He’s been such a fool.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 164





	1. Chapter 1

**London, 2019, the day the world should have ended.**

The Oxford bus does indeed drive all the way to London. Aziraphale shakes the baffled driver’s hand when he disembarks, then waits for Crowley to climb down the steps. He notices the tight grip that Crowley has on the rail, but he doesn’t comment. The demon has hardly spoken the entire drive here, and Aziraphale doesn’t want to disturb his preoccupied thoughts.

However, when Crowley hurries to enter his flat, Aziraphale cannot hold back.

“Crowley?” he asks.

“Hmm?”

“Are you quite sure it’s all right if I stay here?” After the day they have just had, he doesn’t much fancy returning to the wreckage of the bookshop alone. He’d much rather stay with Crowley, as long as Crowley hasn’t had second thoughts.

Crowley doesn’t respond for a moment, and though his back is to him, Aziraphale can tell he is mulling over something rather serious. Finally, he nods and holds the door open.

They make their way into Crowley’s flat, with Crowley bracing himself against the wall as he goes. Just inside the doorway, he pauses, and Aziraphale has had enough. There is something wrong with Crowley, something he is trying to disguise and ignore, perhaps so Aziraphale won’t worry.

“Are you all right?” he asks anyway, concern rippling through him.

Crowley exhales sharply, as if he’s repressing the urge to either curse or laugh. When he speaks, it is with derisive sarcasm. “Well, let’s see... In the last two days, I lost my best friend, I drove a burning car to Tadfield bloody Airbase, lost the Bentley, and stopped time for sixty seconds in front of Satan himself. So tell me, why would I be anything but all right?”

There is a long moment of silence between them, and then Aziraphale sighs. This is going to be difficult, though it should come as no surprise that Crowley will be a stubborn patient. “You need to rest,” he says in a soft voice. His hand comes to rest on Crowley’s shoulder. “You can hardly stand, my dear.”

Crowley grits his teeth when Aziraphale says the endearment. Strange; normally the term seems to please Crowley, not grate on his nerves as it appears to now. He shrugs off Aziraphale’s hand and steps away.

“No.”

“Crowley—”

“No,” he insists. He reaches his desk and drops into the chair, then lifts a hand to rub his forehead. “After what we did today, they’ll be after us. It’s a miracle we’ve lasted this long.”

Aziraphale purses his lips. _Patience_ , he reminds himself. _Crowley has a point_. He waits for Crowley to look back up at him before speaking. “Yes,” he murmurs. “You’ve said. Of course, you’re right. I dread to hear what Gabriel will say—”

“ ‘Say’ ?” Crowley propels himself back to his feet and paces across the floor. “Aziraphale, you didn’t perform too many frivolous miracles. We stopped Arma-bloody-geddon! You aren’t just going to get a stern talking-to. And I most definitely am not getting out of this with a slap on the... knee?” He pauses, frowning in confusion, then shakes his head. “This is a capital offense! The things they could do to us—”

“I _know_ ,” Aziraphale says, glancing down. All of a sudden, he feels quite weary. They averted the end of the world mere hours ago. Can they not have a moment’s respite before the next crisis? He lifts his head, remembering what might be their only assistance. “But Agnes Nutter—”

“Yes, Agnes Nutter.” Crowley clearly isn’t convinced, however. “But is it even possible, what she’s suggesting? A demon and an angel, trading places? Wouldn’t we just... I don’t know, combust?”

“There’s only one way to find out, it seems,” Aziraphale says. “Besides, it can hardly be worse than what our respective higher-ups would do to us, as you said.”

Crowley swallows, looking vaguely ill. Aziraphale knows how he feels; he himself has no idea if such a thing has ever been attempted, or even considered. But he knows, with all the certainty in the universe, that if taking this risk will protect Crowley, he will do it without question.

But Crowley nods, and Aziraphale softens. “Good, that’s decided then. But we’ll wait until the morning to change, I think. For now, you need rest.” Then, he grins. “Turns out I will be inhabiting your body, after all.”

Crowley huffs out a put-upon sigh, an obvious attempt to mask his amusement, but Aziraphale sees right through him. He smiles and moves closer, taking Crowley’s elbow to guide him off the path he’s been pacing into his floor. They go into the bedroom, where Crowley promptly collapses onto the duvet spread over his bed. He tosses his sunglasses somewhere over his shoulder.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says with a sigh, “at least get under the covers.”

Crowley lets out a groan but complies. Aziraphale lowers the sheets over him and then fluffs the pillow the way he’s noticed Crowley likes it[1]. By the time Aziraphale is satisfied with his efforts, Crowley looks to be half-asleep, face mashed into the mattress, limbs a serpentine disaster.

“There,” Aziraphale says, positioning the pillow beneath Crowley’s head. He steps back and straightens his waistcoat, gazing down at his friend. “Comfortable?”

“Mmm.” Crowley closes his eyes. Gazing at him, in this vulnerable state, a potent sense of protectiveness surges up within Aziraphale. Not letting himself hesitate, Aziraphale retrieves Crowley’s sunglasses from the floor and places them on the nightstand. He positions a chair next to the bed, settles into it, and wraps his hand around Crowley’s.

The morning may prove disastrous, if the angels and demons do come for them, but at least they will have this one night of safety and peace.

The peace lasts for only about a minute, though, before Crowley pulls his hand from Aziraphale’s in favor of turning over. He does this several times before growling and sitting up, raking his hands through his hair.

“I can’t sleep!”

“You’ve hardly tried,” Aziraphale protests.

“I _have_ tried! I can’t.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Would you like me to prepare you some warm milk? Or perhaps, I don’t know, chamomile tea? That’s what humans do, isn’t it?”

“I don’t need tea,” Crowley grumbles.

“Well, what might help?” Aziraphale is a bit at a loss; he has never quite come around to the concept of sleeping the way Crowley has.

“It’s not sleeping that’s the problem,” Crowley snaps. He’s drawn his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, looking utterly vulnerable, if not also quite irritated. “My brain won’t… shut up. I… I keep thinking…” He sighs and doesn’t meet Aziraphale’s gaze.

“Thinking about what?”

“About how long we have. Agnes Nutter’s prophecy didn’t give us a particular time, but… surely it will be soon, don’t you think? When they come for us?”

Aziraphale regards him, cringing at the anxiety that radiates off him in waves. “Probably,” he admits. “Would it help if we didn’t wait until morning before we… take precautions?” He knows Crowley needs to rest, and will do anything if it will soothe him—even an action as unprecedented and as drastic as what they have planned.

Crowley nods, his face now pressed against his knees. “Yes, I think so.” His voice is muffled.

“All right, then.” Aziraphale holds out his hand. “Shall we?”

Crowley peeks at him, then lifts an eyebrow. “Seriously? Here?”

“Well, yes. I’d like you to sleep comfortably after. We might as well stay here.”

“Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“Do _you_?” Aziraphale says without thinking, then flinches. “No, sorry. I didn’t mean that. I…” He takes a breath, collecting his thoughts and fighting off nerves. He reminds himself that Crowley is likely as nervous as he is. “Well, it’s not such an inconceivable idea, is it? It isn’t as if either of these”—he gestures to both of them, to their human bodies—“are our true forms, really. In a way, we’ll be swapping one disguise for another. The only difference is that this time, these disguises won’t be for the humans’ benefit.”

Crowley swallows, and for a long moment, neither of them say anything. “I trust you,” he finally says quietly and takes Aziraphale’s proffered hand.

They don’t move, and Aziraphale is distracted by the feeling of Crowley’s skin against his own. He isn’t often touched, and so his desire for contact like this takes him aback. He shakes himself and looks into Crowley’s eyes.

“On three, then?”

“On three.” Crowley straightens his spine, and his thumb rubs against Aziraphale’s skin. “One…”

“Two…”

“Three.”

Aziraphale holds Crowley’s gaze until the last moment, and then closes his eyes. And reaches out. He senses a familiar presence at the periphery of his mind and grasps at it, bringing it close. He allows himself to drift, to split from the body that has been his home for so long. The separation should terrify him—an unmoored soul not being the most comfortable—but the discorporation doesn’t last. The presence he knows without doubt to be Crowley draws nearer still, reassuring him without words.

Neither of them are alone, Aziraphale reminds himself, and so he brushes by Crowley with more confidence than before.

He then becomes aware of a new form, not his own body. Well, not new. He has known this form, this physical home for a beautiful soul, for six thousand years. Thus, it’s surprisingly easy to slip into it. And all the while, he feels Crowley nearby, mirroring his actions.

Once he settles, Aziraphale blinks his new eyes open. The colors seem different, some muted and some enhanced in ways he isn’t used to, but he quickly adjusts. Seeing the world through Crowley’s reptilian eyes is fascinating. He glances down at himself, at the slender human form clad in dark clothes, and marvels at how comfortable it is.

“Huh,” Crowley says beside him. Aziraphale looks up. He almost recoils—it’s a bit disconcerting, looking at himself—but Crowley’s smirk is entirely his own. The familiar sight comforts him.

“It worked,” he says, rather unnecessarily. His words come out in Crowley’s beloved, lilting voice. “Good. That’s that, then.”

Crowley nods, still staring at the form he’s placed himself into, tugging at the cuffs of his jacket. He looks pleased, though, and much calmer than before.

“Do you think you can sleep now?” Aziraphale asks.

“Suppose.” Crowley shrugs, feigning nonchalance even as he stifles a yawn.

Aziraphale chuckles. “Well, lie down, then. I’ll still stay the night.”

Crowley looks askance. “Well, yeah, you’re me right now. You’ve gotta say. If they’re watching us, it’ll be suspicious if you leave your own flat.”

Aziraphale scoffs at his own idiocy. “Of course, yes. Well, you’ll go check on the bookshop in the morning for me, then?”

“Sure,” Crowley nods. “I’ll meet you at the park, let you know how things are, yeah?”

“Thank you.” He pulls the covers back over Crowley.

“Don’t mention it,” he mumbles. “G’night.”

“Goodnight, dear.”

Aziraphale settles back into the chair once more, though it feels different now in Crowley’s body, in Crowley’s clothes. As he watches Crowley drift off to sleep, he hopes that their precaution will prove unneeded.

— — —

At the Ritz the next afternoon, Aziraphale finally allows himself to relax. The soft music floats around him, and the alcohol seeps into his veins, he is back in his usual body, and the threat of Heaven and Hell’s retribution is past, at least for now. Even considering the history of the six thousand years he has been on this planet, this might have been the longest week of his life.

Aziraphale is in the midst of telling a story when he catches sight of Crowley’s expression. Obviously suppressing a myriad of emotions—exhaustion, distress, perhaps even pain. Aziraphale stops mid-sentence in horror. “Oh, what am I doing, going on about nonsense? How insensitive of me.”

“What are you on about?” Crowley frowns.

“What you said in the public house, when I came to see you when I was, ah… well, I suppose saying I was ‘under the weather’ doesn’t quite do justice to not having a body, but you know what I mean. Anyway… you said you lost your best friend.” Aziraphale looks down, shame twisting his insides at forgetting such a thing. Crowley had been distraught when Aziraphale had appeared to him in that pub. Such emotions on display on the part of Crowley are unprecedented. Whatever happened must have been serious, even heartbreaking. Aziraphale meets his gaze directly. “My sincerest condolences.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says slowly, “don’t take this the wrong way, but… how are you such an idiot?”

“Wh-what?” Aziraphale asks.

“You heard me.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you—”

“You,” Crowley says. “That’s who I meant.”

Aziraphale doesn’t speak for a moment, brow now furrowed as Crowley’s words hover in the air between them, unable to be fully grasped. He and Aziraphale don’t talk often about things like this. Then again, they did just help avert Armageddon; perhaps they would be remiss to continue avoiding serious discussions after all that.

Crowley sighs. “I was talking about you,” he explains. “I went to the bookshop when it was on fire, and I thought you were dead.”

“You went—?” Aziraphale’s voice comes out strained. “I didn’t realize…”

“How else do you think I found out about it—Twitter?” His mouth twitches. “Where do you think I got the ruddy prophecy book?”

Aziraphale’s face floods with heat. “I… I suppose I hadn’t given the matter much thought. You can hardly blame me, can you? I was discorporated, and the end of the world was only hours away! I didn’t care how you got it, I was only relieved you had it!”

At that, Crowley’s countenance softens. “Fair enough. Anyway… er… yes. I… I thought they’d killed you, and I… er, wasn’t pleased.”

“So…” Aziraphale says, “when you said you had lost your…”

He trails off, and Crowley rolls his eyes. “Yes!” he exclaims. “You! _You_ are my best friend, you buffoon.”

An instant of charged silence passes, and Crowley’s eyes stay fixed on Aziraphale from behind his sunglasses. Aziraphale’s breath stutters, and his shoulders drop in surprise. And relief, because at least this means Crowley is not burdened with the pain of a terrible loss.

Then, the full impact of what Crowley has said hits him. _Best friend_ , he has said. Meaning, somehow, Aziraphale is his highest priority, his favorite person. What a marvelous, unprecedented idea. Certainly, Aziraphale has long known he enjoys Crowley’s company more than any other, but the knowledge that the feeling is requited delights him.

“Oh,” is all he manages to say. “Well.”

“Yes, well.” Crowley’s lips twitch.

“I didn’t know that you… Well,” Aziraphale repeats. His gaze darts up to meet Crowley’s, then flickers away. He smiles. “Good. The feeling is mutual, I hope you’re aware.”

Crowley grins, too. “Course I’m aware. I’m not oblivious like you.” He says it gently, though.

Aziraphale’s smile widens, and he raises his glass. “Well. To friendship, then.”

“To friendship,” Crowley agrees, holding his gaze. For once, Aziraphale senses that he is not bothering to check the fondness currently painted on his face.

The _clink_ echoes through the Ritz, and Aziraphale swells with happiness in response. They—he and Crowley, his best friend in all the universe—deserve this, after the week they’ve had.

— — —

Later, Aziraphale wonders what has brought him back here. The bookshop is repaired; he should go check that all remains as it was. Yet here he is, trailing Crowley into the demon’s flat for the second time in two days, both of them full and satisfied by the Ritz’s delicious food and wine.

Perhaps, he reflects, he simply doesn’t want to be away from Crowley yet. They are, after all, best friends.

He bites back a smile at the thought.

Inside, Aziraphale divests himself of his coat with a sigh. The decor may be stark and the lighting cold, but this place still feels familiar. Perhaps because Crowley’s scent permeates everything here. Or perhaps because this place is Crowley’s, so it is partly Aziraphale’s by proxy.

A hiss breaks his concentration. He looks to Crowley, whose face has twisted in pain and whose hands have white-knuckled on the back of his ornate chair.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale starts forward, hands extended. Visions of demon-laid traps or the wrath of God flood into his mind. “What on earth is the matter?”

“Ah, er, nothing,” Crowley forces out with gritted teeth. He straightens with what appears to be a great effort, then faces Aziraphale. “I’m fine.”

Aziraphale believes he knows a lie when he sees one, however, and fixes Crowley with a critical stare. He can’t see any obvious injuries, but this hardly surprises him; immortal beings don’t suffer from paper cuts, after all.

But then, what would hurt a demon? Aziraphale can think of only a few things.

In that moment, a memory comes back to him: Crowley, in a church, confronting Nazi spies with abandon, even while he dances across the floor in discomfort.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale breathes. “Of course, I… I didn’t even consider…”

And he truly didn’t; he had been so distracted the last few days by the rather urgent matter of keeping them alive that he had not considered the implications of what Crowley had agreed to do. To walk into Heaven, without flinching, for him.

“I told you, I’m fine,” Crowley insists. His posture tenses, though, and behind his sunglasses, his eyes seem too bright.

Aziraphale’s hands move almost without conscious thought. He only knows that he wants to—needs to—assess Crowley’s wellbeing. He lifts the sunglasses off Crowley’s face, revealing slit pupils and too-large shining yellow irises.

The instant their eyes meet, now unimpeded by any obstacle, all the defiance seems to seep out of Crowley. He sags a bit, and Aziraphale hastily drops the sunglasses on the desk in order to catch him.

“You are not fine,” he says. “Come on, sit. Let me help you.”

Crowley obeys, or perhaps his stoic facade has left him and thus robbed his limbs of strength. Either way, he drops into his chair with another wince. “Aziraphale…”

“Hush,” Aziraphale interrupts. He hates how Crowley vulnerable and small sounds. “Stay still.”

He kneels next to the chair and, with a glance up to obtain Crowley’s consent, unlaces his shoes. Ignoring the sharp, pained intake of breath above, he pulls them off and sets them aside, followed by Crowley’s socks.

Aziraphale flinches and looks away from the angry red blisters covering the soles of Crowley’s feet and creeping up toward his ankles—the punishment of Heaven made physical. “Right,” he says.

“I hope you’re not thinking of healing those.” Crowley sounds as if he’s trying to sound collected, even defensive, but he only comes off sounding on edge.

“No,” Aziraphale assures him. Angelic healing, he suspects, would not work on a demon, and perhaps would even cause further harm. He’s never tried it, but he wouldn’t dare. Not at the expense of Crowley’s safety.

“Stay here,” he says with a squeeze to Crowley’s knee. He stands and hurries to the next room, where he looks around in desperation. Surely something in this flat can help. There won’t be medical supplies, of course, but there must be _something_ to ease the pain.

He finds a large, shallow tub, perhaps once used to house seedlings. It is just the right size for Crowley to place his feet in. Aziraphale waves away the dirt that clings to its sides with a gesture—this miracle may be a risk, just now, but worth it—and carries it to the sink in the kitchen. Once filled, he carries it and a thin rag back to Crowley, whose eyes are now closed. A thin sheen of sweat clings to his forehead. Aziraphale places a gentle hand there, assessing.

“You’re very warm,” he says. “Warmer than usual.” Feverish, he thinks but doesn’t say. Instead, he positions the tub near Crowley’s feet. “Come on, dear, lift your feet for me, just for a moment. That’s it. Thank you.”

Crowley lets out a soft groan, but the sound turns into a sigh when his feet settle into the cool water. “Now _that’s_ what I call holy water.”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “Don’t joke, please.”

One of Crowley’s eyes cracks open to look at him, though a faint smirk plays across his face. “Sorry.”

Aziraphale stays kneeling next to him, somewhat at a loss. Mortal medicine is not something he’s spent much time studying; he relies too much on his powers. Clearly, though, this was a grievous error. He should have foreseen this, that someday someone who can’t be healed by divine touch might be in peril. He should have prepared—

“Stop fretting, Angel,” Crowley says in a faint, but exasperated, voice. “This’ll clear up in a week or so. I think. Probably.”

“A week?” He frowns. “That’s quite some time to be in this much pain. Perhaps if I find some… I don’t know, some sort of panacea, or a poultice, or—”

“No,” Crowley cuts in. “I tried those last time. Those things don’t work on me. Only time.”

His eyes close again. Aziraphale stares, struck by the implications behind Crowley’s words. He imagines him, tucked away somewhere in London during the Blitz, trying in vain to tend to lurid, stinging blisters. Alone. Aziraphale feels a sharp pang of guilt. He doesn’t even know where Crowley had been living at that time. Then again, had he known, would he have come to help? They hadn’t seen each other in nearly a century by that point, and Aziraphale had still been so upset with him, the church rescue notwithstanding.

Well. This time will be different. Yes, Crowley is injured because of Aziraphale—again—and yes, there is nothing substantial to be done about it. But this time, he isn’t alone.

In fact, if Aziraphale has anything to say about it, Crowley won’t have to deal with any pain alone ever again.

His breath stutters. Oh. Oh.

Oh, no.

Aziraphale can sense Affection whenever that emotion is near. Yet he has never looked for it within _himself_ whenever Crowley is near. It should be impossible, an angel feeling such things for a demon; why, then, would it have occurred to him to look? Why would he have thought to analyze his bond with Crowley—a bond forged throughout the centuries through a convenient work arrangement—for anything beyond mere camaraderie?

Yet now, his favorite angelic ability turns inward for the first time, and at last, he sees: He’s been such a fool.

“Are you all right?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale gets the sense that this isn’t the first time he’s posed the question. Despite his burgeoning anxiety, Aziraphale pushes back the revelation threatening to storm his mind; he cannot afford to neglect Crowley in favor of retreating into his own mind.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he says with a wave. Crowley cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t push him. Self-conscious, Aziraphale stands. “I’ve just remembered”—he scrambles for a sensible thing to say—“you mentioned you used that holy water I gave you?”

Crowley looks askance. “You stepped over it when you walked in. Today, and yesterday.”

Aziraphale turns and sees the puddle by the door. “Oh. Well. You can’t blame me for being distracted.”

Crowley chuckles, but it comes out weak. He slumps down in the seat with a sigh. Aziraphale watches him, aching to do more to help. “Come,” he says after a pause. “You should lie down. Unless you’d rather stay here…?”

“Mmm.”

“That’s not an answer,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips, in spite of himself and all that’s in his mind. “How are your feet?”

“Mmm, better, I think,” Crowley says, words coming out mostly as a sigh. His eyes have closed.

“All right,” Aziraphale says, deciding. With quick motions, he eases Crowley’s feet out of the water and dries them with the rag, trying to be both gentle and efficient. When he finishes, he stands and places a hand on Crowley’s arm. “Up you get.”

Crowley mumbles something incomprehensible, and Aziraphale has to swallow back a fond smile. “Please, my dear. You cannot sleep in this ridiculous chair.”

Taking his hands, Aziraphale guides Crowley to his feet and out of the room, down the hallway, and into the bedroom. Crowley sways and leans on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale, for his part, keeps a firm grip on his hand and tries to ignore the racing of his mind, more insistent now with Crowley so close.

Though he has done this just the night before—and was it really only one night ago?—he feels that everything has changed. Crowley has strode into Heaven for him; Aziraphale has sauntered into Hell for Crowley. And now they are here, and Aziraphale stands face to face with the earth-shaking, unforeseen consequences.

He goes through the same motions as the previous night, turning back the sheets and fluffing the pillow, as Crowley sits on the edge of the bed, hunched over with fatigue. Aziraphale tries to pay heed to his actions, but his mind is not focused at all.

The only thing he can focus on is the realization that he would do anything, _anything_ , for the former angel sitting before him.

“Lie down,” he instructs in a soft voice. In response, Crowley simply tips over, head landing on the pillow, as if he can no longer hold himself upright. Aziraphale sits on the bed and again places a hand on Crowley’s forehead. He is hot, too hot for comfort.

“All right,” he murmurs. “Hold on.”

But when he makes to stand—intending to retrieve something else that might ease this pain—a hand finds his sleeve. “No.”

Crowley’s voice is faint and hoarse, and for an instant, all Aziraphale’s strength is occupied with stopping himself from wrapping his arms around Crowley and holding him until he heals.

“Stay.” Crowley implores.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises. “I was only…” But he trails off when Crowley’s grip tightens. He swallows. “Relax, Crowley. I’m staying.”

He hesitates. Miracles are a risk at the moment, but he cannot resist the pull that Crowley emanates from that simple touch to his sleeve. So he lifts his other hand and performs his second miracle of the night—a cloth, dampened with cool water, which he places on Crowley’s forehead. Because he’ll be damned if he puts his own safety before Crowley’s needs.

“Sleep now,” he says. “I’m here.”

Crowley hums, but it’s clear he is nearly asleep already. Aziraphale adjusts his arm so he can hold Crowley’s hand, and he watches him rest, at last.

Mere minutes pass before the panic that Aziraphale has staved off thus far sweeps in again. And with it, quite without his own conscious bidding, comes the palpable sensation of affection again.

He remembers days ago—though they seem a mortal lifetime away—when he and Crowley drove through Tadfield. He remembers feeling the flashes of Love, of such intense emotion as he has never felt before. And now, within him, the same. Affection, adoration, all reaching out like tendrils from his soul, reaching toward Crowley.

Most emotions he senses are muted, hidden within the humans’ hearts. Often in these cases, Aziraphale has to concentrate hard, sometimes help himself along by making eye contact. Adam Young, however, had been different—the Antichrist’s powers were immense, and Aziraphale supposes it stands to reason that his emotions were as well. Even so, how can Aziraphale have not noticed his _own_ emotions? He is an angel; surely his emotions, so near at hand, would rival that of an eleven-year-old child of Satanic origins.

He drags his hands through his hair. He’s going too fast, jumping ahead down lines of thought he cannot yet handle. After all, he hardly can comprehend _what_ he is feeling, let alone how he didn’t notice it until now.

Crowley’s hand twitches in his own, and Aziraphale’s head whips up. But Crowley doesn’t wake, slumbering on. His face looks more peaceful than in waking, an observation that takes the breath from Aziraphale. What a toll the years have exacted on this lovely being.

Aziraphale has lifted Crowley’s hand halfway to his lips by the time he recognizes what precisely he is doing. He freezes.

This isn’t right. He is an angel. Crowley is a demon. If the last hours have proven anything, it is that they should never have worked together in such a way, for so long. The wrath of both Heaven and Hell has hammered that into Aziraphale’s mind.

He lowers Crowley’s hand back to the bed and lets go.

He shakes his head. He can’t do this, he can’t be thinking about this right now. Surely there is something he can do here to be useful.

The holy water is still in a puddle by the door, so Aziraphale cleans it up. He knows missing a single drop could be deadly for Crowley, so he sterilizes every inch of the floor, the door, and the wall next to it.

He dumps the remaining water down the sink, then deep cleans the sink.

After that, he notices dishes on the counter, and washes those.

Then, he empties the bucket of water Crowley had used for his feet earlier, and dries it out.

The bucket reminds him of the plants, and he bustles over to them. “Hello, darlings,” he says, ignoring how his voice cracks slightly. There doesn’t appear to be a plant mister or anything, so Aziraphale uses a small cup to water the plants, murmuring compliments to each. They really are magnificent specimens, though he can sense the stress emanating off of them. He hums to them softly, stroking their leaves and petals, until they relax.

He’s in the midst of repotting a small fern who’s looking a bit cramped in its current home, when his focus slips at last, and his thoughts return to Crowley.

He’s known for years that he’s fond of Crowley; it would be foolish to deny that to himself. But this has altered everything he thought he knew. How can he feel… this? How can this be? This isn’t _right_.

He tries to re-focus on what he’s doing, tries to turn all his attention to the plants who need him, but thoughts of Crowley prevent that. Thoughts of him and Crowley, and all they have been through, and what it means that Aziraphale has fallen… Well. That Aziraphale has these blasphemous, wrong _feelings_.

Once he finishes repotting the fern, he stands in the center of the room, abruptly faced with the fact that there seems to be nothing more that he can do right now. Well, except agonize, which is hardly productive.

His mind is readying itself for more of that unproductive agonizing when a plaintive noise from Crowley’s bedroom reaches him. Aziraphale turns immediately, a quiet gasp escaping him. He hurries back, plagued by fearful imaginings of the demons—or worse, the angels—returning. But Crowley is still asleep, though tossing and turning fitfully. Aziraphale breathes a shaky sigh of relief that he is safe.

At a loss for anything else to do, he pulls up a chair to the bedside. The chair legs scratch across the floor, and Crowley shifts again.

“Azira…?” he groans, though his eyes do not open.

“Hush,” Aziraphale whispers. He tugs the sheets up farther on Crowley’s shoulders, careful to not let his hands linger. “I’m here, it’s all right.”

Crowley settles down again, and his breaths even out. Aziraphale stares at his face, the adrenaline caused by his momentary fear fading, and the distress from his recent revelation returning.

He buries his face in his hands. What is he going to do?

— — —

Crowley remains the main subject on Aziraphale’s mind as the next few days pass. His fever breaks the first day, to the relief of them both, though he still can only walk a few steps at a time, and never without wincing or cursing in increasingly colorful ways—usually both. Aziraphale does what little he can to help treat the wounds, though he aches with the knowledge that he cannot simply wave a hand and get Crowley back to normal at once.

Watching Crowley struggle whenever he puts too much weight on his feet makes Aziraphale think, once again, of the bombing of the church. He remembers the shock when he watched Crowley reach down into the wreckage, pull the bag of books out, and return them to Aziraphale. His voice was soft, his tone fond.

That was the moment, Aziraphale knew—though he had never before admitted it to himself—that he realized just how much Crowley could care. They really were friends, even after not having seen one another for decades. Even after their less-than-pleasant parting before, they were still friends.

It was a moment Aziraphale will not, cannot, forget.

Now, of course, it holds more meaning than ever. They are not only friends; they are _best_ friends. And they could be more, if he lets them.

Still, he wonders. What is he to do about what he has now recognized about himself? How can he allow himself to think these things, to acknowledge this truth?

Every moment he isn’t occupied with something—be it reading to a bored Crowley, tending to the plants in firm defiance of an indignant Crowley, or making sure the flat stays clean for a still-weak Crowley—the anxiety returns.

Heaven will destroy him for this. It’s why he’s never let himself think about it. If it hadn’t been for his abrupt and unavoidable insight into his own feelings, he feels certain he would have gone on ignoring the truth in order to protect himself. Pretending these feelings aren’t there, because it’s easier than acknowledging them.

And now, after escaping the other angels’ wrath only through subterfuge, he still cannot possibly bring himself to _do_ anything about… this.

So he watches Crowley, he cares for Crowley.

He fears what he feels for Crowley.

If his best friend notices Aziraphale’s preoccupation, he doesn’t comment. He seems tired, drained from Armageddon and everything that came after, but he is still exquisite. That thought is as far as Aziraphale will allow himself to go down that path. No action, only that one thought.

After all, what Heaven doesn’t see him do, cannot be punished.

— — —

A few days later, Aziraphale is lost in thought, lost in imaginings of Gabriel descending upon them both with rage in his eyes, when Crowley, lounging on a couch across the room, sighs.

“Honestly, Aziraphale, what are you so gloomy about?”

He swallows. “Whatever do you mean?”

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you moping when you think I’m not looking. I swear, if you are going to mention Gabriel again, or Michael, or—”

“I wasn’t going to!” Aziraphale fidgets. “Well, perhaps I was.”

“They’ll leave us alone,” Crowley insists. “We’ve been over this a dozen times the past few days.”

“It’s not just that,” Aziraphale says without thinking. But he isn’t ready, not now, to tell Crowley about it. Because he knows what he will say—

“ _You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We’re on our own side._ ”

Oh. Oh dear.

Newfound comprehension settles over him _again_ , and he knows his eyes widen in surprise from the way Crowley’s eyebrows climb toward his hair.

“What is it, then?” Crowley asks.

“Nothing,” Aziraphale replies, too quickly. He knows Crowley isn’t buying it, however, and so he continues. “You’re going to think I’m silly, but… I suppose I miss my books.”

Crowley’s face does a thing, then, going all soft and affectionate around the eyes. He seems to be trying not to smile. Aziraphale tries to ignore how attractive it is. “You don’t have to stay, if you need to go take care of things at the shop.”

He isn’t resentful, only understanding. Aziraphale considers trying to sense his emotions, but rejects the idea at once; it’s a bit of a breach of trust after all, an invasion of his best friend’s privacy, tempting as it may be to discern what precisely Crowley is feeling.

He forces himself to focus. “You’ll be all right if I go?”

“Of course,” Crowley drawls, though he is smiling. “Go on. Make sure Adam didn’t wreak havoc on your beloved Austen collection.”

Aziraphale stills. “Don’t even insinuate…”

He gets up and bustles out, Crowley’s soft laughter chasing him.

— — —

The bookshop is just as he’d seen it last, with the addition of a few titles. Aziraphale doesn’t mind; keeping them in stock is the least he can do for Adam.

Besides, coming back to the shop had been a mere cover. He simply didn’t want Crowley to be witness to whatever emotional turmoil Aziraphale knows he’s in for.

He paces back and forth in front of the shelves, wringing his hands. He has no side. The angels have forsaken him, and that is what he’s been unable to face. The only family he has ever had—if they can properly be called a family—has tried to kill him.

He is no longer an angel, at least to the rest of them. So what does that make him? Who is he, if he doesn’t have a side? Who is he, if not an angel?

Of course, Crowley had said it— _we’re on our own side_.

The first time Crowley said it, in _that voice_ , Aziraphale hadn’t been ready to hear it. But the second time, said softer, had been easier to hear, marginally. But can he really face the loss of everything he has known?

 _Not everything, though_ , a small part of his mind points out. _There’s still Crowley. There’s still what you have with him_.

“But what _do_ I have with him?” Aziraphale exclaims to himself. They are allies—certainly. Best friends—yes, of course. More—perhaps. If he can take that last step, to let them fall into each other.

Aziraphale slumps against the nearest bookshelf, groaning. How can he face this?

He goes to prepare himself some cocoa.

— — —

Over the next several days[2], Aziraphale relives every conversation he’s ever had with Crowley. Each word, every microexpression, every move of theirs is examined. Everything Crowley has said, and everything he himself has said, is dissected.

Yet he keeps returning to one exchange.

_“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you wanna go.”_

_“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”_

Aziraphale hadn’t been ready then, hardly able to accept their Arrangement, let alone their friendship. Crowley was a rocket ship to him then, moving and adapting and soaring through this strange world at a momentum that Aziraphale could not comprehend. And the way he, too, secretly wished to race on ahead with Crowley, was terrifying then. It was not to be borne. Yet he had still wanted to. Just as he wants to now.

What does it all _mean_?

Well. Actually. That is to say, Aziraphale knows what it means for _him_. He can acknowledge now, at least in his mind, how Crowley makes him feel. He’s always known, he realizes, in the back of his mind. A tiny yet monumental fact, lingering in his periphery and waiting to be acknowledged. A tiny yet monumental secret, never allowed to spark to life out of fear and loyalty to Heaven.

Now, his loyalty has shifted; not from God, necessarily, but from the angels. To Crowley.

So, that settles it. Aziraphale feels much more than simple friendship for Crowley. There is also protectiveness, wonder, and the greatest affection Aziraphale has ever known. And love, he allows himself to think for the first time. And isn’t that something?

He loves Crowley. Oh good Lord, he _loves_ Crowley.

“I love Crowley,” he whispers, and the world does not implode. Wrathful angels do not descend. He does not burst into flame.

The next time Aziraphale sees his reflection in the shop windows, the sky beyond them dark, he sees the smile, the exhilarated blush.

“Oh, Crowley,” he whispers. Quite absurd; it’s not as if Crowley can hear him. But the name is magical on his tongue, and he is giddy with delight. “I love you.”

— — —

Hours, or perhaps days[3], pass before Aziraphale pulls himself out of his stupefied, excited state. The change is rapid, as a question douses his excitement like cold water.

What if Crowley doesn’t feel the same?

But that’s ridiculous, and he dismisses the thought. Crowley cares a great deal about Aziraphale, to the point of begging him to run away when Armageddon had seemed unavoidable. Crowley wouldn’t make that request of just anyone, would he?

And then Aziraphale remembers, days ago, at the Ritz, the way Crowley had been looking at him. He’d been so exasperated, yet fond, and surely, _surely_ that wasn’t only friendship? And Aziraphale remembers other times, which he now sees in a new light, in his state of desperate hope. He lingers over each memory, smiling and drawing the most marvelous conclusions.

_“Yes, all right, I’ll do that one. My treat.”_

Thus, Crowley cares.

_“I just didn’t wanna see you embarrassed.”_

Thus, Crowley is his friend, looking out for him.

_“A little demonic miracle of my own. Lift home?”_

Thus, Crowley wants to take care of him.

_“We can go off together.”_

Crowley, arms spread wide in invitation, a twinge of pleading in his voice. Of all the beings Crowley might have selected to run off and escape with, he had chosen Aziraphale, as the first and only option.

Aziraphale grins again from the sheer promise and hope of it all. Without conscious bidding, images flash before his mind’s eye, both real and imagined: laughing with Crowley on a park bench, holding Crowley’s hand on a bus ride, ruffling Crowley’s hair, pressing kisses to Crowley’s hands and mouth and neck, tumbling into bed and reaching for the buttons on Crowley’s shirt and trailing fingers down the exposed skin—

Aziraphale shakes himself, startled. That’s quite enough of that. No use getting ahead of himself.

He settles into the chair in front of his desk, where he had once lost hours and hours contemplating Agnes Nutter’s words and the end of the world. Now, he is consumed by thoughts of his best friend, his only friend, his love, his dear Crowley.

He’s made them wait so long, he thinks ruefully. Too long. His repression of his feelings and his fear of Heaven seem so ridiculous now. After all, the threat of the angels’ and demons’ revenge is past, at least for now, and surely if God disapproves of Aziraphale’s feelings, wouldn’t She have intervened in some way by now? Sent down a lightning bolt in warning, or a stern missive, or something?

Well, there’s no use in getting worked up about it; there’s nothing he can do about it now. He glances at his nearest bookshelves. Perhaps Crowley’s passing comment did affect him, because he feels suddenly compelled to check on his Austen collection.

He takes his favorite copy of _Sense and Sensibility_ down from the shelf and brushes his fingers over the cover tenderly. The clock chimes midnight, and Aziraphale pushes back his disappointment. Crowley won’t be coming over tonight, as he is surely asleep—or nearly—by now. Maybe that is for the best. After all, Aziraphale has no idea how he will react to seeing Crowley again, knowing what he knows now. Feeling what he feels.

In the morning, he resolves, he will call Crowley. They can meet at the park, have that picnic he once suggested, and he can tell Crowley how he feels. It’s worth the risk, and once he decides upon the right words, it will be perfect.

For now, Jane Austen awaits.

— — — 

By the next morning, Aziraphale has worked himself into another state of agitation. Austen novels, it seems, are not the best choice for something to read all night when in such an enamored state. He cannot think straight, so overwhelmed is he by intrusive thoughts of Crowley, superimposing himself over the characters in the novel, constantly distracting Aziraphale with thoughts of his eyes, his hair, his walk.

And what is Aziraphale, especially compared to the romantic heroes and heroines who embrace, battle for, and chase love with such abandon? Aziraphale is nothing like them—not as confident or witty or strong. What could Crowley—bold and intelligent and indomitable—possibly see in _him_?

Besides, even if Aziraphale wanted to court Crowley—which he does—and even if Crowley wanted that, how would he even begin? Should he hold his hand? Is that too forward? Or… do people still give one another poems? He supposes he could do that… But Crowley doesn’t particularly enjoy reading, so would he like something like that? What if he brought him flowers? Oh, or a new plant? Crowley does like those…

Aziraphale pinches the bridge of his nose. He is entirely out of his depth, having never courted anyone before, but he knows he cannot let this go. Crowley is too important. Oh, but how, how, _how_ is he going to do this right? There are too many factors, too many variables, too much at stake. He cannot get this wrong, he—

The knock on the door startles him out of his rapidfire thoughts, and the voice that follows it sends him springing to his feet.

“Aziraphale? Are you in there?”

He hurries to the front of the shop. The bell tinkles merrily when he unlocks and opens the door to reveal Crowley standing before him, hands in his pockets. Against the backdrop of gray London sky, he is striking[4]. Aziraphale drinks in the sight of him, as if he hasn’t seen Crowley in years rather than days. The fiery hair, the sharp slant of his jaw, the glimpse of his amber eyes behind dark sunglasses.

“Crowley,” he says foolishly. In his mind, with a keen sense of the blasphemy he might be committing, he thinks, _how can someone so stunning possibly be condemned?_

“Hey,” Crowley says. “Are you… going to let me in?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale steps out of the way, hoping his scrutiny hasn’t made his best friend uncomfortable. “Of course.”

Crowley strolls inside, glancing around. “So, all in order?”

“Y-yes.” Aziraphale nods. “Just as you said. Not even a smudge. Though there are a few new arrivals.”

Crowley nods. “I noticed that.” He meets Aziraphale’s gaze, probing. “So, everything is all right? With you, I mean.”

Aziraphale fights down the urge to flee. “All right? Why— why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, you rushed off. I figured, at first, maybe you really were worried about your books, but then I didn’t hear from you at all for days…” Crowley shrugs. “Seemed odd.”

“We’ve gone longer without spending time together,” Aziraphale says, though he doesn’t even convince himself.

“Yes, but that was before we had to prevent the literal end of the world and avoid being murdered by our higher-ups,” Crowley says. He moves, as if restless, farther into the shop. Aziraphale follows, because what else can he do? Crowley stops by the British literature shelves, leaning against them in a manner that shouldn’t be so graceful and distracting; honestly, it’s infuriating. He crosses his arms, apparently oblivious to Aziraphale’s internal turmoil. “I thought we were… closer, now.”

Aziraphale halts a few steps from Crowley, pursing his lips. “We are.” He sighs and flounders for a reasonable explanation for his sudden desertion. “I’m sorry,” he finally says, knowing that anything else, anything more, would prompt even more questions, ones Aziraphale hasn’t yet had time to plan answers to.

He holds Crowley’s gaze, hoping his expression is honest rather than panicky. To his relief, Crowley seems to soften.

“Well, I can hardly blame you, wanting a break from your resident demon in these dire times,” he says, smirking. “Still, what about lunch?”

Aziraphale grins. “I do feel peckish. Any particular place in mind?”

“There’s a new Japanese place in Covent Garden,” Crowley suggests. “I hear they have excellent sushi, so I thought you’d want to try it.”

His eyes are fond as he speaks, and all at once, all the adoration Aziraphale harbors for him crashes in. He doesn’t know why it hits with such intensity now—truly, Crowley’s comment is such a small thing—but it does. Crowley heard about a new restaurant, and his next immediate thought was that he’d like to try it, to share that experience, with _Aziraphale_.

 _Oh, damn the consequences_ , Aziraphale thinks with vehemence. _Damn the doubt. I’ve had enough._

He steps close to Crowley and meets his gaze. “Crowley,” he breathes. “May I kiss you?”

Behind his sunglasses, Crowley’s eyes widen. A long silence passes, then he nods, and Aziraphale feels like he could _fly_ , even without wings. Crowley’s lips have barely formed around a quiet “yes” before Aziraphale has closed the remaining distance between them. He seizes the lapels of Crowley’s jacket and lets their lips collide.

His momentum slams Crowley’s shoulders against the bookshelf, and the books shake slightly behind him. But Aziraphale hardly notices and hardly cares. Crowley’s lips are warm and soft and somehow familiar. They taste like blessing, like sin, like indulgence, like remedy. This kiss may be the riskiest action Aziraphale has ever taken, but he has never had faith like this before. Because how can this be wrong?

He tilts his head, seeking a better angle. It is only then that he realizes Crowley hasn’t moved yet; he has frozen in Aziraphale’s grasp. Worry flickers through Aziraphale’s mind, and he pulls back just enough to part his lips, which start to form Crowley’s name, to form a question, to ascertain that he’s all right.

The motion jolts life back into Crowley, though. Before Aziraphale can understand what’s happening, Crowley has pulled away entirely, and has pushed Aziraphale backward.

“No, no, wait, stop,” he hisses. “Stop.”

Aziraphale straightens. Crowley’s push was gentle but uncompromising, and most of all it is surprising. Of all the outcomes, this was not one Aziraphale had considered in the last few days, so certain had he been of enthusiastic reciprocation. Then, a dreadful possibility occurs to him, and his stomach drops through the floor.

What if Crowley only said yes out of a strange sense of obligation to his best friend… to humor him? What if Crowley doesn’t truly want this?

“I…” is all he manages to say between breaths, which come harder than he expected. Who knew kissing could be so exhilarating? “Are you all right?”

“Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice comes out… strange. Choked and frantic and somehow so profoundly not-okay that Aziraphale experiences a visceral urge to hold him. He resists, sensing that sudden moves are unwise at present. “I… no.”

And Aziraphale doesn’t understand it.

“Well, I…” Aziraphale can’t find the words to continue. He hardly knows what to say, or what came over him. He never behaves so impulsively, and now he realizes he has no notion of how to explain this. Nor does he know where to go from here, in the wake of Crowley pushing him away. “I thought maybe you wanted this…”

“Don’t do this. Don’t do this just because...” Crowley trails off. He swallows. Is he shaking?

Aziraphale blinks. “Wh-what?”

“Don’t play games with me!” Crowley snaps, yet even as he speaks, with such vitriol in his tone, Aziraphale notices how he is indeed trembling. His expression has crumbled behind his sunglasses, and he straightens as if bracing himself.

And Aziraphale does not understand.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale begins a sentence he doesn’t know how to end; he only knows he cannot allow Crowley to continue sounding like that, looking like that.

“Don’t,” Crowley says. Now, his voice shifts to flat, emotionless, or perhaps shocked—Aziraphale prays it’s merely the latter. But why, _why_ does he sound like that? What has gone wrong? Why did he react in this way to the kiss Aziraphale had thought—had been told, in fact—was welcome?

Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak, but words fail him, and he lowers his gaze. He hears Crowley sigh, but doesn’t look up.

He doesn’t understand.

Neither of them speak another word as Crowley brushes past him. Aziraphale stands unmoving, stares at the floor, hears the retreating footsteps. He stays there, alone save for the tinkling sound of the bell attached to the closing front door.

  1. Aziraphale has gained this knowledge from all the times Crowley has kipped on Aziraphale’s couch in the bookshop, as well as from one memorable instance when they were forced to share a cabin on the Orient Express. [ ▲ ]
  2. It is, in fact, nine days; however, time isn’t entirely real to a disgraced angel having an existential crisis. [ ▲ ]
  3. Two and a half days. He’s lovestruck, so we will have to allow it. [ ▲ ]
  4. Aziraphale always thinks Crowley is striking, but that is beside the point. [ ▲ ]




	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What he wouldn’t give for Aziraphale to touch him like that all the time, as if Crowley is a treasure to him, rather than the shattered remains of an irreparable mistake. For so long—in an ignored, dimly lit corner of his forsaken soul—he has craved Aziraphale’s hands on him, Aziraphale’s mouth on his.
> 
> He craved that touch today, even when he received it, and even when he pushed it away.

**Paris, 1793.**

As he takes his first bite of crêpe, Aziraphale lets out a rather indecent moan. “Oh, these are scrumptious,” he says after he swallows.

Crowley raises his eyebrows, shifting his own already-empty plate to the side and trying to hide his amusement. “I should certainly hope so,” he says, “considering you were willing to risk execution for them.”

Aziraphale gives him a look that’s half-exasperated, half-amused. “Hardly. It was simply an unlucky coincidence.”

“Oh, of course.” Crowley nods, deciding to humor him. He knows that he cannot begrudge Aziraphale anything right now; he is too relieved that he is all right. He recalls the worry that had set in when he’d seen the note affixed to the bookshop window that morning—though it feels like years ago now.

 _Nipped over to Paris. Shop closed until I return_ , the sign said.

“Oh, you stupid, stupid angel,” Crowley had whispered before turning on his heel and making for Paris. There was no way Aziraphale would have planned sensibly for this trip, no way he could have known how bad the situation in France had become. After all, Crowley only knew because of that damn commendation.

Now, the stress recedes in the wake of pure calm. Aziraphale is safe, happy, and here with him.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale is asking. A furrow has appeared in his brow, his fork suspended in midair. “You look preoccupied, dear. Are you all right?”

Crowley nods and reaches for his wine. “Yeah, course.”

Aziraphale smiles at him, and Crowley manages to return it. To think he could have lost this today. Certainly, it wouldn’t have been permanent, but discorporating is still no minor matter. And who knows if Heaven would have issued Aziraphale another body? Yes, things have worked out in the only satisfactory way, Crowley thinks. Any alternative is unacceptable. Not having Aziraphale in his life, just as he is now, is intolerable.

And there it is, between one sip of wine and the next—recognition.

 _I’m in love with you_ , Crowley thinks, watching Aziraphale cut another meticulous bite of crêpe. _Well, then_.

He isn’t even particularly surprised. Ever since they’d met, Crowley had been drawn to Aziraphale, fond of Aziraphale, protective of Aziraphale. From the moment he’d learned of the flaming sword, gifted without fear, Crowley has known. The subsequent years and chance encounters and struck deals ever since have merely served to further convince him.

This angel is different from the others. In fact, this angel is more like Crowley than he will admit. Although Crowley would never voice such a thing, he takes comfort in that knowledge. After all, if he can be like an angel… 

No wonder he has come to feel more for Aziraphale, has come to value Aziraphale above anything else. That he has come to feel affection for even the ridiculous, fussy, over-obedient parts of him.

He has sauntered vaguely into love, but he can’t complain.

Crowley knows he’s distracted for the rest of their meal, but Aziraphale doesn’t press him into conversation. The café isn’t up to Aziraphale’s usual standards, but frequenting most of those places would get them labeled as aristos immediately. He frets about the state of his coat, which is draped across the back of his chair instead of stored in a proper closet. Crowley tries not to be charmed by this, but fails.

“This whole Reign of—what are they calling it? Fright?—is certainly troublesome,” Aziraphale says as they’re leaving. “I hope She knows what She’s doing.”

Crowley almost stops in his tracks. “You think this is _Her_ doing?” he asks.

“Well”—Aziraphale flaps a dismissive hand—“obviously I can’t be sure, but it could be. You know how the Plan is—”

“Yes,” Crowley mutters. “Ineffable. I _know_.”

They step out onto the streets of Paris, which lack their old allure thanks to the echoing screams and cheers from the nearest execution site. Crowley hunches his shoulders. Of course Aziraphale wants to justify this, to find a reasonable explanation for this carnage. If this angel is anything, he is determined to be loyal to a fault, even when it seems the world is going to… well, to Hell.

Crowley glances at him. Aziraphale is fiddling with the cuffs of his disguise, now muttering about this Rule of Fear not being beneficial to fashion.

He would never want Crowley. No self-respecting, faithful angel would even consider loving a demon. Crowley is lucky he has even this tentative connection; asking for more would be asking for trouble.

He has fallen, but he dares not lift a hand upwards, even towards Aziraphale.

Trying to ignore how disappointment has tainted the otherwise good mood of their meal, Crowley puts his hands in his pockets and sets about pushing his love for Aziraphale away, burying it as far from the surface of his heart as Heaven is from Hell.

— — — 

**London, 2019.**

Crowley stumbles to the Bentley, dives inside, and rockets off across London without looking back. One of Mozart’s symphonies is halfway through playing when the buoyant strings transition to a more plaintive piece. Freddie Mercury begins crooning about being lonely, about falling apart, then about surrendering to his love.

Crowley doesn’t even curse at the radio; he is shaking too badly. He simply lets it play through the saxophone solo, at which point he manages to switch it off with a snarl. Yeah, that’s enough of _that_.

How he makes it to his flat remains a mystery. He has no memory of the journey. The only thought in his mind is the thought of Aziraphale, with that _look_ on his face that Crowley still cannot define.

He cannot think about what came after that look, not yet.

The Bentley bumps against the curb, the front tire squeaking in protest, but Crowley doesn’t care. He moves, numb and bewildered, into the building and up the stairs and into his flat. The air feels cold, or perhaps he is, after the warmth of Aziraphale’s hands on him.

Inside, Crowley comes to a stop in front of his plants. Had he been more cognizant of his surroundings, he might have noticed their tension, their anticipation. They have sensed his roiling emotions and brace for what will most certainly be a monumental explosion, with them as the casualties.

To their surprise, Crowley doesn’t move. He stares blankly, just for a moment, and then sinks to his knees. His voice is softer than they’ve ever heard it.

“Aziraphale kissed me.”

He pulls in a ragged breath, and when he speaks again, the plants have to strain to hear him. “What am I supposed to do?”

They have no answer for him.

— — —

Hours pass before Crowley manages to peel himself off the floor. He stumbles to his desk chair, but freezes when he makes to sit down. All he can think about is how such a short time ago, Aziraphale had knelt here, guiding Crowley’s blistered and smarting feet into a tub of soothing, cool water. Even now that they are healed, the sense memory of Aziraphale’s gentle touch lingers.

What he wouldn’t give for Aziraphale to touch him like that all the time, as if Crowley is a treasure to him, rather than the shattered remains of an irreparable mistake. For so long—in an ignored, dimly lit corner of his forsaken soul—he has craved Aziraphale’s hands on him, Aziraphale’s mouth on his.

He craved that touch today, even when he received it, and even when he pushed it away.

He sinks into the chair, but only because his legs decide they no longer wish to support the rest of him. Adrift, he aches for contact, any contact with a body that is not his own. Not necessarily in the way humans might think—not the kind of contact that results in lewd jokes and reddening cheeks and R ratings on films. Just… contact, in and of itself. He holds everyone at arm’s length, and no one seems interested in testing those boundaries. No one seems fond enough to want such casual, chaste connection. Of course, if anyone got close enough to discern his eyes, to see what he’s really like, most people would scamper. Still, knowing that doesn’t make the deprivation easier.

This is not to say that he’s never touched; Hell is too crowded to avoid that. But contact is far from optional down there, far from comfortable. It’s being at a party, not being acknowledged, and wondering if anyone would notice if you left right now. It’s being smashed into the Bakerloo line during peak hours when all you want to do is get off the train[1].

No, he wants contact given freely, wants it made personal. He wants to be held, his hair to be stroked, his shoulders to be massaged. He wants tight embraces, sympathetic pats on the back, cradling hands wrapped around his own. He wants to stretch out on a couch, his head in a lap, or to lie side by side with someone, their arms around him. He wants, he wants, he _wants_ , but he dares not ask for any of it, certain that such requests are forbidden.

But he must admit he doesn’t desire contact with just anyone—only Aziraphale, the one being he can trust in all the universe.

However, he does not deserve Aziraphale. And he is not the only one who knows it; Aziraphale does, too. So many things he has said, so many offhand comments, over the course of their unconventional friendship, have further convinced Crowley of his unworthiness.

“ _You’re the demon; I’m the nice one… I am a great deal holier than thou._ ”

Thus, Crowley is unkind.

“ _I have plenty of other people to fraternize with._ ”

“ _And the feeling is mutual!_ ”

Thus, Crowley is disposable.

“ _We have nothing whatsoever in common! We’re on opposite sides!_ ”

Thus… well, that one speaks for itself, doesn’t it?

No, there is no way Aziraphale has ever conceived of them being more.

Yet, despite all that, despite all the knowledge and proof Crowley has collected over the days and months and years and eras, he cannot help but feel… well, otherwise.

The careful way Aziraphale had lifted his wing over Crowley as a protective shield against the first ever rainfall.

The joy, devotion, and relief in Aziraphale’s eyes when he’d turned in that Paris prison cell to see Crowley lounging behind him.

The steady hand Aziraphale had placed on the small of Crowley’s back when he’d come to check on an unwell Warlock, both of them leaning over his bedside in the evening light.

The sound of abject terror in Aziraphale’s voice when the angels had arrived with their ties and gags to drag Crowley to his doom.

The gentle outreach over the years, the probing yet soft questions Aziraphale had asked about Crowley—how are his plants doing, has he had a good decade, did he see the latest Shakespeare and what does he think of it, how is he really because it’s been so long…

The tender manner Aziraphale had adopted days ago when realizing Crowley’s feet were burned and stinging with pain, as if he could not bear the thought of Crowley being in distress.

All these moments and more have culminated in one inevitable result—love. How could Crowley not love him? Aziraphale radiates softness and love and the kind of passion for life that Crowley can only imagine. He cannot even aspire to have such passion; after all, he is a demon.

But he would bask in Aziraphale’s passion for eternity if he could.

However, this is an angel, as he has had to remind himself time and again. A demon is not to take comfort from anything or anyone, let alone an angel. Of course, the other demons in general do not subscribe to this tenet, but Crowley does. His own form of penance, his own peculiar demonic self-flagellation.

He does not deserve Love, which he has known since he and Aziraphale stood pressed together shoulder to fingertips and watched a carpenter from Galilee give up his life.

He does not deserve Comfort, which he has known since he ran into Aziraphale in a plague mask and watched him guide a family into a church with a desperately hopeful expression.

He does not deserve Touch, which he has known since he stood beside Aziraphale at the wedding of Victoria and Albert and watched two become one.

He does not deserve Kindness, which he has known since he crouched in a cold wet trench in December and watched Aziraphale, in uniform, exchanging gifts with the Germans with a wondering smile on his angelic face[2].

He does not deserve Aziraphale. And he has never known it better than when he stepped toward the Antichrist, pleading with him, and watched the trust and peace on Aziraphale’s face.

He does not deserve Aziraphale, who does not and could not possibly want him anyway.

— — —

If Crowley doesn’t get out of the flat _right now_ , he’s going to go mad. He storms out, not caring that his hair is in disarray or that his jacket is rumpled from being slumped on the couch for hours. He’s halfway to St. James’s Park when he freezes in the center of the sidewalk, then turns around, changing his destination to a place less saturated in thoughts of Aziraphale.

He ends up at the edge of the Serpentine, a handful of feed for the waterfowl in his fist. He lobs piece after piece into the water, sometimes hitting an unsuspecting bird.

Why, why, _why_ did Aziraphale kiss him? It makes no sense; it had been so sudden. All Crowley had done was ask him to lunch, and the next thing he knows, Aziraphale is _right there_ , asking to kiss him. And of course Crowley said yes—he’s only dreamed of this for years, for centuries.

But the kiss… it was laced with such delight and enthusiasm and something like desperation. It had been _so much_ , so much _more_ than Crowley thought it would be. Whenever he imagined Aziraphale kissing him—those rare times he let his guard down and let himself consider it—it was always soft, tender, adoring, and like Aziraphale was as head over heels as Crowley.

This, though…

He throws another pellet of food, teeth bared in a fierce grin when it wallops a goose in the side of the head.

This kiss was nothing like that. Hard and energetic and _fuck_ , maybe Crowley isn’t as ready as he thought he was. He’d said yes to Aziraphale, but as soon as he said it, he’d wanted to take it back.

Who would have thought that he, not Aziraphale, would want this all to just _slow down_?

More than that, there is no way in Heaven or Hell or where-bloody-ever that Aziraphale really wanted that with Crowley. That is impossible. 

Aziraphale must be lonely, that’s all. Feeling lost in light of Armageddon and their respective trials. He probably wants comfort and distraction, and Crowley was convenient. He is not what Aziraphale truly wants.

So. No point going on about it any further. It was a stupid mistake, nothing more. Aziraphale probably regrets it. Well, that’s fine. Crowley can deal with this. They never have to talk about it, but if Aziraphale insists on discussing it, Crowley can tell him that he has no expectations.

He knows it was a mistake.

Crowley flings the last food pellets into the water, not even seeing if they hit any animals. He shoves his hands in his pockets, turns, and heads home.

It was a mistake.

But it’s fine. It’ll be fine.

— — —

Crowley has barely returned home when a knock sounds on the door. “Crowley?” the muffled voice of Aziraphale calls.

“Shit,” Crowley mutters. He’s not ready for this.

But the knocking continues, grating on his nerves the longer it goes on. He lets it go on for a solid minute, long enough for Aziraphale to hopefully start sweating, then stalks over to the door and yanks it open. “What do you _want_?”

“Ah, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s smile is brittle. “May I come in?”

Crowley sighs and steps back. “I guess.” He braces himself, and sure enough, from the moment Aziraphale steps inside the flat, he is talking, barely breathing between words as he makes his way into the plant room. Crowley follows, glad he doesn’t need to breathe.

“Listen, I—I know I might have made an… impulsive decision, last time we, ah, spoke. I’ve done a lot of thinking about it, and I know it was selfish and that I surprised you. I apologize. I think I understand why you reacted the way you did, stopping it.” He grimaces, but plows on, before Crowley can do so much as inhale. “That said, I won’t have you avoiding me. I won’t have you pushing me away. Not after all we’ve been through together. We need… we need to discuss this. You’re my best friend, after all, and I—”

Crowley whirls on him. He doesn’t know what his face looks like, but it must be alarming from the way Aziraphale’s eyes widen and his mouth closes.

“Fuck you,” Crowley whispers.

“I—”

“It’s a bit rich, coming from you, isn’t it?” he goes on. “Going on about me avoiding you. You started it, disappearing into your bookshop for bloody days with no warning!”

Aziraphale looks a bit shamefaced at that. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry—”

“And then,” Crowley continues, raising his voice over Aziraphale’s, “the next time I see you, you…” His throat closes up. “You…”

“Kissed you,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley takes a breath. “Yes. You… did that. And it… well, it... it pissed me off.” He doesn’t mention it also terrified him; he’s unprepared to admit that.

Aziraphale frowns. “Why on earth would that—”

“Because,” Crowley groans, and the words tumble from him of their own volition, “I didn’t want it to happen. Not like _that_. You weren’t thinking straight. You… you’ve been emotional and… things, because of that whole Tadfield, Adam Young business. It wasn’t what you really wanted. You don’t feel that, you just wanted… someone, something. You don’t want _me_!” He knows his voice has risen to an inappropriate volume, but he cannot stop himself; these words demand being spoken.

“You don’t want me,” he repeats, even as the despair crashes in. “Not the way I…” He can’t finish the sentence aloud, not while Aziraphale is here, his eyes so shocked and yet so soft.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “Please don’t tell me you’ve… you’ve _loved_ me, all this time.”

His head drops, defeated. “All right, I won’t tell you then,” he whispers.

“Oh, good Lord…” Aziraphale’s voice is strained, but worse, it’s _pitying_.

The sound of it sends frustration and anger through Crowley without warning, and his jaw clenches. Seconds of silence that seem to span years pass before he can bring himself to speak again. When he does speak, his voice is steady in a terrible way. Because with the kiss, Aziraphale made the first mistake. Crowley might as well make the next one.

“Two hundred twenty-six,” he says.

Aziraphale’s brow furrows in a way that Crowley, even now, can’t help but find endearing. “What?”

“Two hundred twenty-six years,” he elaborates, speaking with deliberate, barely-controlled slowness. “That’s how long I’ve known how I feel about you. How long I’ve known that I…” He swallows, but presses on. It’s out already anyway, by implication, so he may as well give it all up, might as well make this mistake properly. “That I love you.”

Aziraphale blinks several times. “Two hundred twenty-six years,” he repeats. “But that would be—”

“1793, yes,” Crowley rasps. “Paris. The Bastille. Lunch.”

“We had crêpes,” Aziraphale says in a trembling voice. “Oh, Crowley, I had no—”

“I _know_ ,” he snaps. “You had no idea because I didn’t want you to know. You were never supposed to find out. You wouldn’t have, either, if you hadn’t gone and… and _fucked it all up_!” He knows he’s shouting again but doesn’t care.

Aziraphale winces, but Crowley is on a roll now. “You fucked it up, because of your idiotic urge to kiss me. You can’t do that! We—we’re supposed to be enemies…” He flails, helpless and stammering, for a moment. Aziraphale takes a single tentative step forward, but Crowley retreats, presses himself against the window.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice is low yet firm. He frowns as if somehow betrayed, as if somehow he’s the one who’s been wronged. “How long would you have denied me knowing this?”

“Well, it’s not like it matters how I feel, does it? You’re an angel and I’m Fallen and that’s not something we can just ignore! I knew that from the moment I realized I love you. We shouldn’t have ever even become friends. I… Our head offices would never let this pass, if they knew!”

“We’re not on their side anymore,” Aziraphale points out. “You said so yourself.”

Crowley hisses in frustration. “That’s not the point!” Articulating his racing thoughts seems increasingly impossible. He feels adrift, frantic, yet numb. His chest heaves as if he’s been running, as if he’s back in the burning bookshop, facing the destruction of all that matters.

“Then what is your point?” Aziraphale asks, swallowing. He moves forward again, one step. Several feet still separate them, though it might as well be miles.

“You’re an angel. I’m a demon,” Crowley repeats, voice breaking on the last word. “Never mind our head offices. You would never feel… that way, not for me. I’ve always known that. Why do you think I never asked you for more, after all these centuries? Why do you think I never let myself show it? I— I mean, you’re _you_ , Aziraphale, and I’m me. Is it such a surprise I’ve been hiding?”

His chin drops to his chest, and his hands lift to his hair and rake through it—it’s a relief, feeling some other sensation besides the weight of sorrow and fear within him. All his words and anger seem to have left him. He is drained.

The quiet stretches between them. Crowley doesn’t look up, bracing for the sound of retreating footsteps and a closing door, for the conclusion to this mistake he started making in 1793.

Instead, at last, Aziraphale’s voice speaks in that careful way of his that has always torn Crowley apart.

“I love you.”

Crowley’s laugh is more like a bitter sob. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” Aziraphale whispers. “Of course I do.”

Crowley shakes his head, heart rejecting the words. “How could you, though?”

“How could I not?” Aziraphale sounds closer now, but the light touch of his hands on Crowley’s still makes him jump. He allows Aziraphale to untangle his fingers from his hair and lower his hands. Neither moves away, and Crowley, in spite of himself, revels in the warmth of Aziraphale’s fingers grasping his.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale implores, “please look at me.”

In that moment, Crowley realizes—no one says his name like that.

Hastur says it with derision, with disgust. Beelzebub says it with indifference, as if his name—as if he—means nothing. Ligur, Dagon, all the others have always said it with such hesitation, as if it feels wrong in their mouths. As if _Crowley_ is wrong, and even the invocation of his name is dangerous.

The angels—Gabriel especially—say it with such predictable hatred. But there’s fear, too, fear and prejudice and holier-than-thou-ness.

Aziraphale, though.

The angel says it again, this time his hands dropping Crowley’s and coming to rest instead on his sides. “Crowley.”

Aziraphale says his name as if it in itself is an endearment, as if it is a universe in itself. As if his name—as if he—is worth valuing.

That gives Crowley the strength to lift his gaze and meet Aziraphale’s. He stands there, body language relaxed, touch light and not restricting. The earnest, careful, gentle opposite of the taut, tense, spooked animal that is Crowley’s heart.

“You’ve helped create galaxies,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley frowns. “Yes…?”

“You know every detail of the sky, and yet…” Aziraphale smiles. “Yet you still seem to find it magical.”

“I—” Crowley begins, though he has no idea how he might end the sentence. He doesn’t get the chance, though, for Aziraphale speaks over him.

“You’re kind. Even after what’s been done to you, you still seek to help people. Especially children.”

“I suggested you kill an eleven-year-old recently,” Crowley points out feebly.

“To save the world for the rest of them,” Aziraphale corrects, “and need I remind you, once we realized that plan wouldn’t work, _you_ are the one who froze time and found a way to _reach_ him instead.”

Crowley tries to tear his eyes away, but Aziraphale’s hand is there, guiding his chin back so he has no choice but to look, to listen.

“You’re moral, despite what they made you. I know you might not like me saying it, but you’re a good person.” Aziraphale, Crowley notices, has started to blush. “You’re brave, and clever—”

“I’m really not—”

“Hush, don’t interrupt.” Aziraphale strokes his thumb over Crowley’s cheek, and Crowley wants to collapse to the floor in response. “You’re courageous, and clever, and… beautiful. You are _so_ beautiful, my dear, dear Crowley.”

Crowley lets out an involuntary sound, and presses his mouth into Aziraphale’s palm instinctively to muffle it. Aziraphale shifts closer, shushing him gently once more.

“If I ever needed proof of the existence of divinity, my dearest, I would only need to look at what it has been like to know you.”

And that’s what does it—Crowley lets out another sound, somewhere between a yelp and a sob, and sags into Aziraphale’s embrace, shaking.

“Shhh,” Aziraphale says, stroking a hand down Crowley’s back. “It’s all right.”

“Az—Aziraphale,” Crowley chokes out. He swipes a hand across his streaming eyes, trying to be surreptitious about it. He suspects he failed, however, from the way Aziraphale tightens his grip.

They remain that way, locked in this urgent, long overdue embrace, long enough for Crowley’s trembling to cease and his breathing to return—mostly—to normal. He doesn’t move, though, content to let his head rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder as long as it’s allowed.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. He shifts, and Crowley leans back only far enough to look him in the eyes again. “Are you willing to try kissing again?”

Crowley doesn’t want to tense, but his ridiculous corporeal form doesn’t seem willing to heed his desires right now. Somehow, it’s still, _still_ , too soon, too fast. He has barely comprehended the first kiss; how can he be expected to handle a second? Aziraphale’s eyes widen in response to Crowley’s reaction, and he rushes on,

“I don’t mean _now_ , necessarily. Only when you’re ready. We have time, of course. Hopefully several thousand years more. I’ll wait.”

 _It’s been six thousand years already_ , Crowley thinks but doesn’t say. _Haven’t we waited long enough?_ He swallows. He sees what Aziraphale is doing, allowing Crowley to take the next step. He thinks he would feel overwhelmed, if it weren’t Aziraphale. Aziraphale, whom he knows. Aziraphale, whom he loves. With that in mind, he knows this will be fine.

He just wants them to be fine _now_.

“But…” he manages.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale shakes his head, as if he knows what he couldn’t voice. “Honestly, you must understand by now, especially after everything that’s happened in the last few years, that I will always be your friend. I will always be here, no matter what. Now,” he continues, straightening and lifting his chin matter-of-factly, “do you want me to stay, or would you like to be alone?”

“I…” Crowley pauses, mulls it over. “I think I want time to think. I think.”

Aziraphale smiles, nods, and steps away. Crowley lets him. This time, unlike after that disastrous first kiss in the bookshop, he doesn’t feel bereft of the touch. Now, something feels… settled, safer.

“It’s late,” Aziraphale says, unnecessarily. The navy and silver skyline of London expands behind the windows, just visible in Crowley’s periphery. He isn’t sure when night fell; time is still a blur to him. “Yes, I’ll go, let you think. And if I may, you should get some sleep as well.”

His eyes say the rest— _take as long as you need_.

He waits for Crowley to nod, then smiles and turns to leave. At the last instant though, he twists back, his hand clutching Crowley’s.

“May I kiss your hand, my dear boy?” he asks, sounding breathy and hopeful.

Crowley stares, incredulous, but nods. Aziraphale grins, and his lips press a fleeting kiss to Crowley’s knuckles before he lets go and walks away.

Crowley listens to his retreating footsteps and to the door closing. He remains there, astonished, back pressed against the window, for ages. Finally, he forces himself to move, but has to catch himself against one of his plants.

“You heard that too, right?” he asks it. It gives a half-frightened, half-agreeing little shake.

“Hmm. Well, then.” He gives the plant a nod and slides to the ground, ending up against the window again. His mind feels… floaty, as if it cannot latch onto anything properly.

To steady himself, he twists about and looks to the sky.

Ugh, why does he live in London again? The sky is so dim here, the constellations barely visible even on clear nights. He supposes he has Pollution to thank for that. Tonight is clear, though, only a solitary cloud here and there, the rest deepest azure. He can even see a few stars and supposes that even the London sky can be rather lovely on nights like this.

The sight normally comforts him, but now, he can hardly focus.

“Aziraphale loves me,” he says aloud to himself. Well, no. He understands upon finishing the sentence that he isn’t speaking to himself at all. He is speaking to the Almighty, the one he turns to again and again, even when he wishes he could let go.

“He… he loves me,” he says again, definitely to God now. “I don’t know why. I mean, he told me, but…” He shrugs, and his brittle laugh dies as quickly as it is born.

“How can he, though? He’s an angel. No, he’s not just an angel. He’s the best thing You’ve ever… And I… I’m a demon”—his voice catches, but he presses on—“and I’m not worthy. Not of any of it. Not of him, not of this whole blasted world…” He flaps his hand vaguely. “And certainly not of talking to You.”

“I’m a demon,” he reiterates, shaky. “I’m not allowed any of this. And I’m not supposed to… to fall in love.”

The sky does not reply, but Crowley spots another star he hadn’t noticed before. He smiles at it in greeting. “But then, I’ve never been good at obeying the rules, have I? Even… before.”

And memories of Before wash over him, bittersweet and potent. Creation, white wings, and Light. He shakes them away, sighing, and lifts his gaze back to the stars. “I would have followed You, you know. I wanted to, but… I suppose I didn’t want it badly enough. I suppose I wasn’t cut out for all Your plans…”

But then, he stops. Plans. Now, there’s something. He’s reminded of not long ago, when they’d made the argument to Gabriel. He and Aziraphale together had pointed out that the Plan isn’t only Great, it’s Ineffable. So what if this—all that has happened in the last months, all that business with Adam and the other children, all that Crowley and Aziraphale have done—is part of the Plan?

What if Crowley, just as he is now, is part of the Plan?

“Is it true?” He breathes, trusting She hears his real question. “Am I?” He shakes his head. “You’re not going to answer, I know. Answering a praying demon, a bit awkward for You, I should think. But… it _is_ true, isn’t it? You’re… well, I mean, you’re You, aren’t you? You know how all this is going to go. I was supposed to be this way, wasn’t I? Or…” He stammers, a new idea occurring. “Or You knew I would choose this way. Either way, if it… if it is true… I… I never thought of it this way… But then, the point is that it’s not for us to know, isn’t it?”

He has risen from sitting to perched on his knees. His hand, at some point, has lifted to press against the glass, as if he might be able to grasp the stars. Now, he leans forward, and his forehead connects with the cool glass as he gazes outward, wonder coursing through him.

“You Created me,” he says. “It’s said that You love all your Creations. And… and if that’s the case…”

A voice, perhaps his own, sounds in his mind: _God loves you, Crowley. Maybe it’s time you did the same_.

He laughs, and both his hands meet glass now. “Thank you,” he whispers through his tears. “Thank you.”

The stars twinkle overhead while Crowley composes himself enough to stand. He gives them one last look before turning and staggering toward his bed. His steps are uncoordinated, but at the same time, he has never felt so light in six millennia.

He needs to call Aziraphale. He needs to tell him so much—how he feels, what he wants for them, everything. But then, he also needs a nap. He suspects if he calls now, he won’t be able to form a single coherent word.

Yes, a nap really is the best idea. He settles into bed, and smiles as he closes his eyes.

— — —

Crowley climbs out of bed to find mid-morning light streaming into the flat. He must have slept a few hours longer than he thought, but then, emotional agitation is rather exhausting, even for a demon. He stretches, runs his fingers through his hair, and thinks of Aziraphale.

 _“I love you,”_ he had said. _“How could I not?”_

Crowley smiles. He still cannot quite bring himself to believe that speech was real, that Aziraphale had really held him close and said such staggering, incredible, wondrous things. And yet he _remembers_ this marvelous occurrence—the sound of Aziraphale’s voice, the feeling of Aziraphale’s arms around him, the press of Aziraphale’s lips to the back of his hand. It was real. It happened. Crowley can have what he has wanted for so long.

He hasn’t made a mistake after all. Or if he has, it’s led him here, so he can’t regret it.

A shiver of instinctual fear threatens to douse his excitement. After so many years of pushing his emotions away, of hiding his desire, letting go of that fear still feels wrong.

But he will let go for Aziraphale, the glorious angel who somehow manages to think of Crowley as “dearest.”

And he will let go for himself, because after all this time, maybe he deserves to try.

He strides into the other room, lifts the phone from its cradle, and is about to dial Aziraphale’s number when he stops. Something is different, something he cannot quite put his finger on. He stares around the flat, and—there. A used teacup, sitting in the drying rack, but he hadn’t had tea yesterday.

He approaches it and sniffs. It is clean and dry, but he can detect a faint aroma of Aziraphale’s favorite midafternoon tea—some fussy green tea from a specific Japanese teahouse[3]. With that familiar scent comes memory.

Crowley recalls being asleep in bed, in that strange state of almost-waking, when everything is soft and gray. And there, a touch to the forehead—a hand, or lips? He doesn’t know. And then, a voice—“rest well, my dear.”

Perhaps it had been a dream, perhaps not.

He flies to the phone and this time does not hesitate to dial. The other end barely rings once before there’s a click.

“Crowley?”

The sound of Aziraphale’s voice sends sparks of joy through Crowley. His grin is helpless as he replies, “Well, who else would it be—an aardvark?”

Aziraphale makes a small, flustered noise, and Crowley’s cheeks heat in response. “I… I mean, of course I know it’s you. I only… well, are you all right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He doesn’t like the distress in Aziraphale’s voice, and his hand clenches around the phone. Has something happened?

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, voice quiet, “I know I agreed to give you space, but… well, after all this time… I’ve started to be a bit… concerned.”

Crowley frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Well, after all we’ve been through lately, especially with those trials, two months without a word seems—”

“ _What!_ ” Crowley squawks. “Two months?”

“Y—yes? The first few weeks, I didn’t mind, but recently I’ve become concerned. I came to check on you last month, but you were sleeping, so I left. I thought you’d… well, wake sooner. I left some messages…”

Crowley’s eyes drop to the ansaphone, where indeed a light blinks to indicate unheard messages. Guilt floods through him, but also fondness. Aziraphale came to check on him. “I only meant…” he says, swallowing, “I only meant to nap.”

There’s silence on the other end for a moment, and then Aziraphale laughs, so amused and fond that Crowley has to resist shrinking to atom-size and rushing through the phone to Aziraphale’s side this instant. “You do enjoy your naps.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“I know, my dear.”

Crowley smiles, but he thinks of what the past two months must have been like: Aziraphale across town, tucked away in the safety of his bookshop, wondering about Crowley’s silence. Coming over in spite of himself—perhaps miracling the lock away—and leaving again, knowing he promised to wait. Then, Crowley thinks of what the next months could be.

 _I want you to stay by my side next time I nap_ , he thinks, _and the next time and the next time and the next time and the next time. I want you to stay by my side forever_.

Neither says a word for a few minutes, soaking in the familiarity of the other’s silence. From the sound of it, Aziraphale has a Billie Holiday record playing, and his soft humming soothes Crowley. He sits down in his chair and relaxes into the quiet between them, wondering if contentment feels anything like this.

“Hey, Angel,” he says at last, “would you meet me somewhere?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale replies. “Would you like to have lunch? Or—”

“What about… we meet at the third alternative rendezvous?” Crowley suggests.

The first time they were there, they stumbled across it by accident on a stroll. He remembers the band that had been playing there, and Aziraphale’s delighted face. He remembers thinking _this could be a place for us, if things start to go pear-shaped_. And of course, things had. And there, things had gotten so much worse.

But now, Crowley wants to go back to a time when the bandstand was good. Or, rather, he wants to go forward. To make things good once more.

“Oh.” Aziraphale sounds taken aback. “Yes, all right. But, Crowley? Are you certain everything is…?”

“I’m certain,” he interrupts, gently. “It’s not like last time, Aziraphale.”

“All right. I’ll see you presently, then.”

Crowley smiles. “See you soon.”

— — —

Traffic laws resolutely ignored, Crowley arrives at the park in under ten minutes. The air is chilled, an early harbinger of the impending winter. There are few people in the park, and none near the bandstand. Not that Crowley would care even if there were a horde; he no longer wants to hide, from others or from himself. He no longer needs to.

Aziraphale is already sitting on the steps of the bandstand, his back to Crowley, who wonders if he risked performing a miracle to get here first. The thought makes Crowley move faster. However, when he nears, he quiets his steps and pauses, leaning against the metal pillar and gazing at Aziraphale for a moment.

His Angel.

“You got here in a hurry,” he comments.

Aziraphale jumps and whirls. When he catches sight of Crowley, he smiles. “Well, I wanted to be punctual.”

“I didn’t set a time to meet,” Crowley points out, and Aziraphale shrugs, sheepish.

Crowley crosses under the bandstand to sit next to him. They don’t speak at first, but more than once Crowley catches Aziraphale glancing at him, then away just as quickly. He knows he needs to be the one to begin this conversation; he called the meeting, after all.

Instead of speaking, though, he moves. With care, as if this moment could shatter, he takes Aziraphale’s hand, interlocking their fingers. He’s allowed to do this now, he must remember. He doesn’t even have to ask—Aziraphale will give this freely.

“So, two months,” he says.

Aziraphale nods. “A rather long two months, for me,” he admits. “I missed you.”

Crowley ducks his head. “I’m sorry.”

“You already apologized over the telephone.” Aziraphale squeezes his hand. “You’re forgiven.”

They stop speaking again, and Crowley senses that Aziraphale is waiting for him to say something more. Giving him time, and space, to do so.

 _You go too fast for me_.

Well, none of that, not anymore. Besides, Aziraphale said it himself—Crowley is forgiven. And so maybe all this means he can forgive himself, too.

He starts to speak, but the only thing that makes it out of his mouth is a wordless stammering noise. He clears his throat and tries again. “You— you gave away your sword.”

Aziraphale blinks. “Yes…?”

“It’s what first drew me to you,” Crowley says. “Well, that and the fact you actually talked to me. That was a point in your favor. But you gave the sword away, because you saw a different way to help humanity. You weren’t supposed to, but you did. You… Your faith was different than the others’, even then. Faith in _humans_ , too.”

“I—”

“You keep surprising me, but in the best ways,” Crowley goes on. “You agreed to the Arrangement, for one. You love humans, genuinely love them, even though they’re angry and messy and so… so frightening. The things they’ve done, without any influence from… well, from demons like me… all that would be enough to make anyone question the Plan. But you’ve never stopped loving them. You still find things they’ve done to enjoy. None of the other angels are like you.”

“Crowley—”

“You’re a bit of a bastard,” he interrupts with a smile. “And you _indulge_ in things, things angels aren’t supposed to. And you… y—you know, you’re brave and intelligent and…” He almost chokes the next word back when that ingrained reflex kicks in, but it’s as if the floodgates have broken. He couldn’t stop himself even if he’d wanted to. “You— you’re… handsome,” he stammers.

“I’m what?” Aziraphale’s face goes bright red. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not being ridiculous!”

“Crowley, look at me. Compared to… most? Compared to you?” Aziraphale shakes his head.

Crowley fixes him with a flat look. “I’m a demon,” he says. “I’m hardly considered the paragon of attractiveness.”

“Anyone who thinks that clearly has never seen you.”

Crowley huffs, flustered. “Would you— will you— please just let me compliment you!”

Aziraphale grins. “So sorry. Go on, then.”

Crowley inclines his head. “Good. I…” He fumbles, not sure where to go from here, not now that Aziraphale is smiling at him like _that_. “I mean… y—you… you’re just different, all right? You’re special! You manage to love all God’s Creations, even… me.”

And oh, admitting it out loud feels new, though he’s been obsessively thinking about it. The smile that overtakes his face probably verges on giddy, but he does not, cannot, care. “You love me,” he breathes.

Aziraphale grasps Crowley’s hand with both of his own. “I do.”

“And I love you,” Crowley declares, certainty and confidence bubbling up within him. “Damn it all, Aziraphale, I love you.”

He should elaborate on everything; he should tell Aziraphale about what happened during his conversation with God. Yet right now, with resolve and confidence he hopes he can hold onto, he is simply effervescent, and can only act. And so he moves—free hand rising to rest on the back of Aziraphale’s neck, body tilting forward to find a new home against Aziraphale’s body—and kisses the love of his life.

He knows this isn’t a mistake; in fact, this is what contentment feels like. No, more than that: this is what _happiness_ feels like.

Unlike their first kiss in the bookshop—that disastrous, incredible, bewildering first kiss—this one starts out soft. Crowley slides his lips across Aziraphale’s, who starts to respond. His hand slips out of Crowley’s, but only to tilt his chin and deepen the kiss. At the first touch of Aziraphale’s tongue to his own, Crowley shivers and gasps.

They break apart. “Sorry,” Aziraphale says, face gone aflame with mortification. “Sorry, that was probably too fast—”

“Shut up, Angel,” Crowley rasps, tugging at Aziraphale’s collar to draw him back. “Shut up about ‘too fast’ and all that bollocks, and do that… that thing you just did… do it again immediately.”

Aziraphale laughs, an exuberant sound, and traces along Crowley’s jawline. He looks as if he’s about to say something, but then shakes his head in wonder and kisses Crowley once more.

Crowley sinks into Aziraphale, wanting to somehow find a way, not to stop time completely, but to stretch out this moment so that he might exist within it forever. He has more than once noted Aziraphale’s passion—for the world, for humans, for life itself. But he has never experienced it firsthand before, has never had it focused on him before, and it is magnificent.

He deepens the kiss, or maybe Aziraphale does, and his Angel’s fingers secure themselves around his wrist. Such a small gesture, relatively innocent, shouldn’t affect Crowley the way it does—something deep inside him breaks and mends, breaks and mends. He is allowed to want this; he can ask for this; he will be given this. Tears sting his eyes, and a weak noise escapes from him.

Aziraphale retreats and peers at him. He removes Crowley’s sunglasses, sets them to the side, and kisses each of Crowley’s wet cheeks in turn. “Are you all right?”

Crowley nods, laughing. “I’m fine.”

Aziraphale smiles back, then guides Crowley’s head down so it rests on his shoulder. They remain there, locked in this tight embrace, until Crowley’s mind stops reeling and he stops fearing he is going to wake up alone in bed or that wrathful angels are about to descend upon them.

This is real, they are safe, and Aziraphale loves him.

“Lift home?” Crowley asks at last.

Aziraphale’s smile is in his voice as he replies, “Only if you come with me, my dearest.”

Crowley presses his nose into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, his own smile growing. “Temptation accomplished,” he mumbles.

Aziraphale doesn’t react for a moment, but then starts giggling. Crowley can’t help but join in. So many days—well, centuries, really—of carrying around the weight of unacknowledged, neglected love seem as nothing now. He wonders if he could fly right now, even without wings. His heart certainly seems weightless enough.

Their fingers intertwine when they stand and make their way toward the edge of the park, where the Bentley awaits. An awkward moment arises when both try to open the doors for each other, but Crowley eventually—with many put-upon, disgruntled remarks—gives in. Only fitting, he supposes; even a failed demon can’t very well be seen being _chivalrous_.

Inside the car, Aziraphale doesn’t let them leave until he kisses Crowley once more. And Crowley, for the first time ever, drives under the speed limit. He cannot be bothered with hurrying; his mind is far too occupied with soaking in the sensation of Aziraphale’s hand, which has taken up residence on his knee.

They sit in silence for several minutes, until Aziraphale glances over his shoulder at the car behind them. The driver has been inching ever closer to their rear bumper, due to Crowley driving now twenty under the posted speed limit.

Aziraphale turns back around, and when he speaks, affection saturates his tone. “You know, you don’t have to go so slowly.”

Crowley glances at him. Aziraphale is staring right back, adoration shining from his eyes.

“Maybe I want this to last,” he replies.

Aziraphale squeezes his knee and nods. Neither of them speak again for the rest of the drive, which is determinedly calm and leisurely—within the Bentley, that is. The chorus of disgruntled honks outside tell another story, though neither occupant of the car notices. At one point, the music switches mid-song from Tchaikovsky to Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend,” but for once, Crowley doesn’t mind the intrusion.

Well, all right, he does mind when “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy” comes on next. That’s quite enough of that, Bentley, thanks very much.

Eventually, Crowley parks outside the bookshop and springs out. Eagerness lends urgency to his movements; he finds he quite fancies being alone with Aziraphale, not in a park or a car where others might see them. No, he wants Aziraphale all to himself.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale has to dig in his pocket to find his key, which takes far too long for Crowley’s liking. It has been too many seconds since the last time Aziraphale touched him[4] .

He steps up behind his Angel and wraps his arms around him, kissing his neck.

Aziraphale chuckles even as he shivers. “My darling, not that I don’t appreciate your attentions, but I must warn you. If you keep distracting me, I will never get this door unlocked.”

Crowley groans. “Agh, fine...” He doesn’t pull away entirely, though; he doesn’t really think he can at this point.

Aziraphale _finally_ opens the door, and they stumble inside. Crowley forces himself to let go at last, while Aziraphale locks the door behind them and ensures the “closed” sign is in place. Meanwhile, Crowley slides his hands into his pockets and regards the store. His fondness for this place has reached absurd levels without warning or reason. Well, not without reason. That reason is still fussing with the door. That reason has burned the sensation of his fingers and his lips into Crowley’s skin and made the entire world marvelous.

Crowley leans against a bookshelf, trying to be casual, but a jolt goes through him when Aziraphale turns around.

He’s backlit by the sun streaming in from the windows, and the tender smile on his face melts something deep inside Crowley. He grins, unable and unwilling to do anything else.

Aziraphale looks suddenly shy, fidgeting. “So... erm... what now?”

Crowley scoffs. “What do you mean, ‘what now’ ? We’ve waited six thousand years for this. Let’s not overthink it now.”

“You’re right.” Aziraphale’s cheeks turn pink. “Apologies. Old habits.”

Crowley cocks his head. “Well? Get over here and kiss me, Angel.”

— — —

The first thing Crowley thinks when he starts to wake is _soft_.

Since when has his bed been this soft, this comfortable? Has someone somehow replaced his pillow while he slept?

A few more moments pass before he realizes his pillow is not in fact his pillow—it’s an angel. He looks up to a wondrous sight—Aziraphale sitting up against the headboard, a book in his lap, Crowley’s head on his belly.

His cheeks heating, Crowley rolls off Aziraphale and onto his side. “Morning,” he mumbles.

Aziraphale smiles and slides down to recline on his side as well. He slips a pillow beneath both their heads and meets Crowley’s gaze. “Good morning.”

“When... when’d we get here?” Crowley asks, stifling a yawn. He’s certain they’d gone to the bookshop and spent the evening holding hands and sipping wine in front of a fire in the hearth. Things got fuzzy after the second bottle, but he’s still fairly certain he fell asleep there. When had they returned to his flat?

“A bit after one,” Aziraphale explains. “You dropped off to sleep, and I thought you would rather rest in your own bed.”

“And you stayed?”

Aziraphale’s blue eyes somehow seem even softer than usual in the light of early morning. He sets aside his book and skims a hand down Crowley’s body to rest upon his waist. “Of course. I love spending time with you. And...” He swallows, glancing down. “Well, I was a bit worried. You’ve slept so much lately. I wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

“You know I get sleepy after a lot of wine, Angel,” Crowley mumbles. “We had, what, two bottles each?”

“We were celebrating,” Aziraphale says with a radiant smile. He brushes his fingers through Crowley’s hair, which surely looks a mess. “So that truly is why you fell asleep?”

Crowley frowns. “Of course...”

“Sorry, I know this sounds irrational. I only... Well, after yesterday, I suppose I feel protective of you. My Crowley,” he adds.

Crowley hisses a surprised laugh and moves closer to Aziraphale, who continues to play with his hair. Crowley revels in the attention, marveling at how freely it is given. He wonders if he could have asked for this all along. Would Aziraphale have been willing to hold him, had Crowley said something earlier? The idea makes him sad, that he has probably spent years bereft of this for no good reason.

He seeks something to distract him. “How did we get here?” He cannot fathom that Aziraphale took the Bentley.

Sure enough, Aziraphale chuckles. “Well, I certainly was not going to attempt driving. I... erm, well, I flew us here.”

Crowley lifts an eyebrow. “Flew.” He imagines himself carried, like one of those damsels in black and white films, in Aziraphale’s arms as he wings through the sky over London. And judging from the blush spreading across Aziraphale’s face, that is precisely what happened.

“Yes, well, it seemed the most expedient and least risky. I thought...” He glances at Crowley, shy but also coy. “I, er, thought that miracling myself and a demon into bed together would probably be taking things a step too far for Gabriel.”

Crowley snorts. It cannot be an attractive sound, but something about it makes Aziraphale beam at him. They lie there, giggling in each other’s arms, until Crowley shifts forward and presses their lips together.

Aziraphale lets out a little “oh” of surprise but kisses back. When they break apart, his eyes are wide with wonder.

“Was that okay?” Crowley asks, struck by doubt. Even after yesterday, after all the kisses and touches and words exchanged, he has trouble accepting that this can be his.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says. His cheeks have darkened, though, and Crowley cannot help but kiss them. “Only… it’s rather exciting and novel, having this. For all its morals and principles, Heaven isn’t particularly… well, a cuddly place. Not that it’s their fault; few of them have had a corporeal body as long as I have.”

“But it really is okay? That we’re… er… doing this?” He is a disgraced demon; he doesn’t say “cuddly.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale assures. “More than acceptable. It’ll just take some getting used to.”

And it will, Crowley knows. Both of them have feared and hidden away and fled from this for so long; the giving in is a relief but also a new kind of freefall. They will have to learn so much—how to reach for each other, how to give and receive pleasure and comfort, how to live knowing that half of themselves resides in the soul of the other, how to have faith in the permanence of this. But they’ve been through worse, both together and separately, and Crowley is not afraid.

  1. In fact, he designed that particular aspect of the Underground with Hell in mind. [ ▲ ]
  2. Aziraphale still doesn’t know that this Christmas miracle was actually Crowley’s doing. [ ▲ ]
  3. Crowley had learned Aziraphale’s extensive Tea Opinions after giving him the “wrong” blend once. [ ▲ ]
  4. Nineteen and a half seconds, to be precise. [ ▲ ]



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been my baby for so long (I think I started it in October 2019???), and so it's hard to believe it's really out in the world.
> 
> Special thanks to elizabethelizabeth for your feedback and encouragement when I was sure this story was rubbish. This wouldn't have been finished without you, I guarantee it.
> 
> And thank you to everyone for reading!


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